BEFORE SHE FLIES

Solitude.

You ever walked the shores of a lake,an ocean or a sea alone?The loneliness in your heart pulls a chair,sits down and start a conversation.

Solitude can kill you.
It can mess your system real bad.There is a language that solitude speaks.It is an evil language,it shouldn't be spoken.Solitude engulfs you and your knuckles are never the same,you feel it in your fingers forever like it is written in the tablets of your heart.You know what is worse than having solitude written in the tablets of heart?
It is solitude itself.
I have tasted this.And boy does it taste bad.Like Pilau made by a Kikuyu,you know the type that has pumpkin and butternut and it is still Pilau?That one.
It never is the same again.It stays forever.Solitude is a female dog.I'd have used the other word but I am about to write about my Mother.

She could strangle the words out of me if I did.

14 was my craziest year,any man will tell you they never had the idea of navigating 14,they still don't.There are these changes that are happening to you,good changes and bad ones,you are growing pubes,you don't even know what to do with them.At 14 you notice girls and their breasts and their small hips,the small of their backs.

Heck!whoever created 14.

But what will mess your ribs up is not puberty,it is not growing chest hair,it is not breaking your voice.It is the loss of your mother.It is like a bad kiss,it stays in your mouth forever.

That is the real solitude.

Yes,your mother will die one day and with that your heart will never be repaired.Mothers are heroes,they are like battle charged generals,they are waging war,and in a war,they are likely to cross the divide.They will die.And you?You'll lose your marbles.

I had not seen her cry,she was stoic.Wambui was something else.I used to call her Mama Lucy,she was bad news,when you were on the wrong you better had crammed your Bible verses well,for her house would be a court and that would have simply been your judgement day.She was a totalitarian in discipline a woman with the guts of Orie Rogo Manduli

So,I only saw here cry twice.

The first day,was a few weeks before her eventful crossing over.She was taken ill.Her hair was falling off.Wambui loved her head.She was the first woman I took to the salon,and every week I dutifully followed her there,because when your mother goes to make her hair,the world must stop.Her salon sessions were a church services and I obligedly followed the sermons-without complain.

She was sweating profusely that day,perhaps on the gravity of the load she was leaving behind.She didn't  just see the idea of her leaving us(Me and Njoki)behind.

I was a hormone charged,confused, young and defiant teenager.I wanted to defy her impending odeal.

You cannot cheat death.

You just can't.And badly so, you can't cheat the death of your mother.When she flies,she is a bird.She just flies and that is it.

That day broke my heart,I have never cried as much,she kept telling me that men are strong,that they don't cry like women,the thing about the death of your mother is that,it makes you a woman.It makes you cry.It breaks your heart.Your mother is your number one woman,she calls the shots.Adds winds to your sails.You will cry and you will not care being called a woman.

Your number one woman will crush you in ways beyond comprehension.

And so that day she was taken to the hospital,she left a thick air in our house,the silence again pulled a seat.

Effin gobsmerking.

The eejit that is the silence and/or solitude chokes you.It stays in your throat.When you are defenceless,when you cannot protect the woman you love the most from macabre-ish happenings.

God knows I'd have chosen me over her,when the grim ripper came.

A week later I saw her cry-again.

Her tears,burnt my fingers.But the sorrow is what set my heart ablaze.Her hair thin,her crown ripped off.Her heart shuttered.She wanted to talk,she wanted to say something,maybe,

"don't cry my son,I'll get outta here."

Yes Wambui could have said "outta here" in 2004 she was cool like that.

She didn't.Get out of there.
Her burning tears fell on my small hands.The sound!Deafening,they dropped so  heavily,everyone from bed 12 to the entire hospital hall heard their fall.BEFORE SHE FLIES

I looked at her,she looked away.She never wanted me to see her cry,it was a cardinal sin in the bible of her life.Her strength was her religion.We worshiped there like devout saints.We bowed at how strong a woman Mama Lucy was.I cried.My mother made me a woman that day.A proud woman-for the woman I will never be able to replace.Wambui.

Njoki wasn't here with us,something to do with kids not being allowed to hospitals and that brouhaha.

What madness?Her mother flew before she ever called her "mom".My heart will never move on from that.

And so the visiting hours were over,the nurse came for my neck.I swear I haven't forgiven that woman.I don't think I will.

I left.

Can you hear the pulpable silence?

Can you  see my never drying tears?

Yes?

I went home.Not a single word from my woman.

Before she flies,she is silent.

Nothing had prepared me for this.No man is prepared for this.

Not even Hitler.

And that 12th day of December 2014,she flied.

Wambui gave in to something even stronger than her stocism,something countless than the tears she cried.

Something boistorous.Something immoral.

She gave up to death.

With all her strength,all her stoicism and  all her love

As Kenyans went to celebrate liberation on Jamhuri Day,my heart and that of my 1 year old sister got incarcerated.

Life for all we knew would never be the same.

The cruelty with death,it not only breaks your heart it ensures it becomes irriparable.

Hordes of people came,friends and family.And then that question-which is still by my standards the most useless in the history of questions asked to a 14 year olds that just lost their mother..

"are you ok?"

I wanted to say no,but can you have words to express some things?When your mother dies in silence,you don't have words to express your feelings.Your throat blocks,your word bank runs bankrupt.

Your mother will fly but before she flies,she takes with her your words.She leaves you wordless,but most devastatingly-motherless.

And for that one week she lay in the morgue,I was numb of words,I was berieved of speech.Njoki cried.I cried.

Everyone did.They lost a friend a sister and a relative.We lost Mama Lucy

I failed in keeping track of events that one week.

Between 12th Sunday and 21st Tuesday,I visited hell daily.

What I recall 12 years later,is that scene in hospital-that Sartuday,Grim.

When your mom flies,she never comes back.The day she does, never is the same.

I'd graduate with my first bachelors same day 11 years later.

But she'd already acquired wings.She flied.

Before she flies be nice to her.

Mama Lucy.

REAL AS IT GETS

Today I saw a woman,a real woman with original eyebrows...I had missed this feeling.The last time I saw such a breathe taking scene Raila Odinga was still Prime minister and Free Education was a pipe dream
She looked like a creature from a far off land,some pre-historic human being(in a good way) she looked like she was still evolving and like she was rushing to her cave in Roysambu after a field day in hunting and gathering in the Karura forest,

She looked like she was uncomfortable in the pencil skirt she was wearing and she couldn't wait to put on the hide of a dikdik that she killed two weeks ago and which she has dried in the sun for as much time.

She didn't love the cologne she was wearing,this I saw in her grin,she really wanted to rub aloe vera on her skin and jojoba and chamomile and petals of hibiscus.
She wanted to remove her 24 inch high heels because who goes for hunting in high heels?who fam?who? She looked dazed that there are people only showed the crevices of their chests,she looked like she would walk in town bare chested because it is 1763 and bare chest is the thing.

Miss real eyebrows probably had a stone in her small sling bag,this is a weapon should she meet an elephant,straying in her neck of the woods,and then proceed to strangle it with her bare hands.
Her freekin' bare hands fam.

She was mascular,had facial hair that can only be challenged by those on pigmies' faces in the nearby Congo forest(it is 1763,you can just walk from Roysambu to Congo forest and feel nothing)

Her muscles were the size of a full grown chimpanzee,complete with chest hair to shield her from the cold when she finaly removes her crop top.
Her hair was the size of those Brazilians..only that it was the closest thing you can get to hair-human real hair.
Her jaws were elongetad probably because she cuts roots of the Mugomo tree using her teeth.the Mugomo tree roots are a libido enhancement for her lazy ass husband.

Her nails were unkempt,long and dirty-because it is 1726BC and we are waiting for Isaac Newton to discover gravity in the next 600 years so that we can build on this knowledge to invent a nail clipper.

Her feet? never mind.

Her breathe?something that could light a fire if exposed to electricity or petrol or diesel or anything..something lethal.

Her knee caps were the size of cold stone bowls.But because it is 1726 and we don't know icecream,that comparison is a hoax,So were her elbows like she has used them to pin an entire pride of lions down..

She was not carryig a phone(phones have not even been thought of..it is 1726BC-bloody 1726)

When she wanted to send a whatsApp message to her girlfriends in Guantanamo Bay Cuba,she picked up two dry sticks rubbed them hard and lit a fire with the dry leaves just beneathe..the smoke said it all.it delivered the message,complete with emojis and the signation

"xoxo I luv u galfwend"-like all abnormal girls write

Then the the recipient in Guantanamo bay Cuba,sent a smoke-sorry a message back

"Heey,imagine, there is this guy from China(insert that emoji with love hearts in the eyes)he has just walked all the way,imagine he likes me and he just killed an elephant with as stick..aki I like him.."

"aaaaaw, for real?ebu send me his pic" (insert that emoji with covered eyes is it a monkey or what?)and endless bouts of smokes.They probably burnt down an entire forest because the chat went well into the devil's hours..

What I am trying to say is,today I saw a woman with real eyebrows.And because guys here might catch feelings...I leave it at that.
Real eyebrows.If you see a woman that has walked from Kenyatta avenue Nakuru to Roysambu,wearing the hide of a dikdik and carrying a small sling bag with stones and has real eyebrows, that is her...blow a horn and send her this message:

"xoxo...I luv U galfwend(tihhihihi) "

CATHERINE

There is something you'd comfortably spend a month's long salary/earning and feel nothing about!

Right?

Ok let me take you through this slowly.

You grow up nurturing desires,a fetish, a want a crazy craving that nears immoral.

You let it grow,you nurse it every evening in your bed,you pray about it,you visualise and dream about it.You cry at times and feel bad about it.You talk to your fetish,You lose marbles over this thing.You will have monologues because a fetish can mess your system badly.

Look,if you are grown up and there is nothing in your life that you'd spend a month's earning on and feel nothing but satisfaction about, you need to shift your focus,you need new goals.You need to have a second life time,You are wasting this one.You need Jesus!

My small fetish revolves around time pieces,Oh watches!They do things to me,I could sell a house and buy a watch.
Because I can live in a watch right?

I know what you want to tell me,

"Muigai si you marry your watches then?"
I'd do that one too,who needs a wife when they can have a watch?seriously who?You?

You are not weird,you are special-not the good type of special.special as in your head....

You've seen how guys marry trees,goats,dogs(poor dogs) et al,I'd walk down the isle with a Rolex or a Timex or a Sekonda or  Currren or the amazing Casio Ediffice.
Ok I promise to stop there.

But a watch?I'd  love her to sun and back,the moon is a cliche.

So,when I was still in diappers,my mother(the Lord bless her soul) bought me my first ever timepiece..Yes.a pink jalopy that looked like a watch,and man!did I love that thing.I sang for/to her daily.

note the pronoun

I slept with her.Not that way you moron.(not that I wouldn't if I could)

I attended to her every need,I wiped her face daily,talked to her in Watchish( the language of watches)

Thank me later.

I worshiped my contraption,She was beautiful.She had an ass like that of a socialite,she was light skin,her elbows were always oiled,she kept manicured nails,wore good perfume.

She was the watermelon of my eyes.Apples are too small.

Catherine was her name.She walked like Catherine McNeil,she was gracefull.She loved pink,she always wore pink.We therefore called her Pink Catherine and this warmed her heart.She was loyal,she always was on time,never late.She travelled alot,but was always on my left hand wrist.

Then age happened,I met a bunch of weirds,they thought pink was a color created for girls(curse you)
And I let them hold sway those fools.They thought I was weird,that liking pink is evil,they made me feel uneasy wearing Catherine,yet me and Catherine felt connected,skin deep,we felt in love always.But evil people came in between us.

I sob everytime I remember her,I have never been able to replace her,I never will.I gave her up for adoption-to a girl called Catherine-my childhood crush I have many.

Some little advice,your crush should mean two worlds to you.So when gifting them,gift them your other crush...
Helps to float your boat? You are welcome.

I wonder where Catherine went to(my watch not the girl)

Is she still moving,does she still love pink,does she still have that ass,did she open an Instagram account to show off.

Oh,my Catherine.I promise I still love you.I am yet to find another piece like you.It's been close to 20 years.

Wherever you are Pink Cate we love you.Me and the people that read this blog.

Keep moving,keep showing people your timelesness,Keep that face shinning.

I promise Pink is still my favorite color,but folks here would think I am weird,so I tell them it's red.

Looks a tad more manly right?

In your honor I bought pink socks that I love.

We love you Catherine.

IT IS NOT A CONCRETE JUNGLE-ASANTE

If you held a gun to my head,I'd laugh at you..
Ok,I am kidding,

I'd be scared shit,my knees would gnarl,my teeth would gnash,I'd shake,

Jeez,I'd pee..No that I wouldn't do-even to save my life.

Honestly I've never quite understood the connection between the two(fear and piss)

I'd say a prayer for Jane(my bed)

My bed is called Jane.Stop giving me those eyes.
I wanted to call her Mitchelle when I bought her,but who would ever take me seriously?

Would you?

When was the last time you took a man whose bed is called Mitchelle seriously?
hands up....

So Jane was the it.

I'd pray that she gets a good caretaker,a man who would spread clean sheets on her(white)Jane hates green bed sheets by the way,there was this time I had a green pair, boy I wish you'd see her face,she was sad for the two or three days she endured this macabre-ish treatment.
Green bed sheets are for ugly beds called Mitchelle.Beds that resigned to the fate of dust mites along time ago,beds whose owners have smelly feet and drool and snore with their moths wide open.

If you know a bed called Mitchelle,save it from its owner will you?

But what would scare me the most is not a gun on my scalp.No! not even losing Jane,ok that would touch me I promise.

She's the forever and ever type.

She is loyal.

What would wet my loins,what would make me beg for dear life,heck what would make me think twice about my relationship with Jane-which is currently at a critical stage of amazing,is silence!

A man makes some choices some time,and I'd gaudily give her away,I love her I promise,but I just cannot stand the idea of silence,I'd choose to send her letters in her new home and proclaim how  much I love her..

But if you took me to place where,people didn't talk to me,I'd crumble.my heart would bleed,I'd get brain haemorrhage,or hernia or massive Schizophrenia.I'd start monologues that would soon be heard 25 Kilometres away,

I'd imagine I have a gathering and each time I'd give speeches,because I'd never shut up.I keep talking,yes I'd do.
I talk when it is unnecessary, to strangers,to people I know.

I am made of the type of clay that manufactures speakers,wait,are speakers made of clay?

Insight Please?

I'd write my eulogy once I arrive at a bizzarely silent place,In that eulogy I'd remember you people that think

I am funny,you that think I am a writer,You that religiously follow my musings online and offline,people who spend dog hours reading useless post on this space.

I'd dedicated Frank Sinatra's "my way" to all my loyal readers.I'd also pen down a moving piece about Jane-who wouldn't?I'd say how I'd miss her and the times etc..

Then I'd proceed to bottle up the message in an Afia Mango juice bottle and let it to the sea,to forage to a coastline in Kenya(from Serbia), maybe there,one of you fam,would find it,open it, and read the contents.And then I'd wait the next a thousand years for Jane to respond.

You'd then find how moving the part about Jane was,You'd take photos of my letter(poor letter-the Lord will intervene) and post them with a barrage of hashtags on Instagram,and probably a line or two from Amos & Josh's Baadae..and just like that Jane and I would be separated,

She would maybe get a bad owner,something,a character  between Moses Kuria and Adan Duale.

That bad....

I'd turn in my grave at this sacreligious undoing.

Poor Jane.I love you I promise.

The thing is,we all love conversations,all of us.
Even the type that keeps updating on whatsApp that they are nolonger interested in conversations.

Those are always nursing a dificiency,a lack of sorts.
I have pleanty of monologues,but they sound as crazy as they sound(you didn't see that right?)
But what warms my heart, what takes the crown,is to know that even in my supposed monologues,I am not talking to myself especially here on the internet.

I need that assurance,I need to know that I am talking to people..real people that read and write affidavits.
I need to learn that the message I convey even if at times it sounds damn,has been recieved.

And so every once in a while,when I meet you on the road or in church or in coffee shops and you tell me you read my articles,my heart skips a bit,when you follow the blog

www.muigai-wambui.blogspot.com

I know I am not a crazy young man with internet and plenty of time to waste.

When google analytics tells me I have readers in Polland(23 last I checked),I know I am not as crazy as some of you think.
When you like and comment on posts here,such shit warms my heart-and that of Jane.And we love that

We are squad

Keep reading

keep being awesome

So a big thankyou to you for reading,In a way these monologues remind me that this IS NOT A CONCRETE JUNGLE and that I am not in Serbia and I don't have to look for an Afia Mango juice bottle and a feather and a piece of paper to write and send you my message.

You are close

CALM YOUR THIGHS,IT IS NOT AS SERIOUS AS IT LOOKS

FIRST WORD ON MONDAY

In my campus days, I went to class with some immoraly serious people.
BSc,Actuarial Science as they want us to imagine is ment for people with no respect for social capital.People that didn't have time to oil their elbows,or shave their eyebrows-in the case of girls.
Their sense of style was as good as kilometres away,these were people that lived by a code,a manuscript that revolved around books and more books and even more nbooks to add to the ones they had.SAD ,they cracked formuli,and when I say formuli,I mean 3 page formuli,people who searched the internet for what's new in their field.People whose online accounts were active when Mark Zuckerburg was a boy.

Serious fellows those were.

My first day in class was the dreadiest,guys were reading and researching and asking each other question.I am usually the unseriously type,so I challenged them to have me as their class representative.I knew they would have me unopposed because judging from the way I was dressed they could tell I was not cut for this meat!
They have that talent.
Actuaries can tell from 96 miles away whether you can integrate stuff,whether you can diiferentiate sums by parts four time(I just lost you there didn't I?)

Through my four years in the boring class I aslo did not understand a thing in Integration by patrts so I promise you it is ok.You do not need to see a doctor or sue your University for colluding with lecturers to hide this vital knowledge from you,
It is very much ok to not understand Integration by parts.You woun't catch a hernia if  you don't get it.

It is just pointless.

And so,my four years were spent enjoying life in campus never for one moment did I postpond my happiness,for books or for past papers or for meaningless Actuarial tables-I threw that shit away on my last day in campus with alot of anger and joy at the same time.

They(serious fellows) thought I was joking,like they had always thought for 4 goddanm years,can you believe that?

We started with 20 serious people,the others to fill 36 were jokers me included. We finished 28,again all the 20 serious fellows intact,8 jokers still pushing the wheel,the other 8,fell of the raddar,something that everyone should learn to do.

The thing is,you are a limited edition,a rare copy of a rare creation,time shouldn't be wasted in the things of this life that can work with a little play,so don't haul your sorry face in books,in work or engagements that have alternatives.Life is never as serious as you pretend it to be. So,go yee never postpond happines for anything,for anyone!

Live it now,have it now,enjoy it now,life is not going to ask you to integrate math,or interpolate sums.

Life is asking you one small favor,

ENJOY,LIVE,DOCUMENT

one year after campus,that is all that mattered.

EAT,LOVE PRAY

image courtesy google

OF BREAKFAST,HOOKERS AND MY BROKEN HEART

I know what you are thinking you bofoon,I will not task myself in explaining.
I grew up a tad close to Kanu Street,Nakuru's priemere red light street.So, well up untill my early teenage years,I'd see hordes of girls,nay at times women,young old,fat(mostly fat) tiny,women with bad hairstyles,bad combination of colors,heck!women with bad attitudes,attitudes that could cow Mugabe and his Gucci Grace at once,they had attitudes that talked to you long before you said a word,attitudes designed in hell-by the devil himself and not his operatives.
I saw hookers I knew, hookers whose children battled with esteem issues whenever an indifferent excuse of a teacher brought the topic of parents' proffesions.
I saw beautiful hookers,hookers that didn't look anything like the shindigs they exercised their vices from,hookers with tones and tones of beauty,beauty that would put Halle Berry to shame-Oh God Halle Berry,Didn't I just obsess about this woman when growing up.By the way if you don't know Halle Berry you are kid,you should be reading Sound & Read or English Aid,Hell!you should be reading Hello Children.
Helle Berry was the SI unit of beauty..I had her poster cut on the wall adjacent to my bed.I worshiped her,I had an evil lust over her boobs,her ass,I learned these things early in life-I lived next to hookers street remember? my mother cursed me everyday,she wondered why an overtly older woman would intrigue me,excite me and among other things-too lucid to be said here in one sentence with my mother.I digress.
Halle Berry was our woman-me and my boys.You know that saying?The blacker the Berry?? hahahahah...see what I did?
She is not the hooker here,she is our forever and ever obsession.How i wish I'd marry Halle Berry.(it is that bad)
We love you Halle,me,Jerry,Nick,John and Joel..Joel kwanza.
Now,one morning-well after my Halle Berry stint,I walked in a certain alley in town,I was wearing a corporate shirt,a chilly morning my fingers felt like a cucumber,or a watermelon,have your fingers ever felt like they did not belong to you?Like they should have another life in Kinoo growing up as cabbages because you are cold?That kind of cold.
So a group of women stood at an impossible place,impossible because I had to pass through that thick,on both sides,they were women of all ages,mostly fat,with wobbly bellies,acres and acres of cellulite,bad cellulite exposure,nothing announced they were twighlight girls, I mean, you don't want to pay for cellulite and wobbly tummies,you want to pay for petite,for beauty and for all those things you imagine hookers can do right?Ok,I am weird.
So when I passed through the small space they had left as a passage,one held my hand
" uko na tisho pooooa Si unipee"
"hapana
"aiii nipee tuu"
"hapana sitaki"
(ofcourse we were talking about the tshirt you moron)
Nobody was willing to give anything-Tshirst or otherwise.
Then I did the unthinkable,I bought my freedom-with money of course.I splipped a note into her palm.Though I wanted to slip it elsewhere like in the movies,who places notes on hookers hands?who? It is not 1789..
"Hii nunua nayo T-shirt kama hii"
"asante,Mungu akubariki"
A hooker just said a blessing over my poor soul.
I kept on seeing her,we became great friends,and she kept on teasing me daily..
"Unataka?"
which I kept on asking
"nini?"
"Breakfast"
"eeh nataka breakfast,the eggs sunside up,hihihi"
"aki wewe unakuagha mufanee"in that heavy Kikuyu accent from Nyeri.
We built a relationship,we became great bossom buddies-hahaha.
We laughed,sometimes I wanted to spend time with her,because that is what hookers do to you,they make you want to spend time with them,they are a happy lot,they live in the spur of the moment,life is always a risky affair that they are too willing to take head on(no pun)
I wanted to ask her questions,I wanted to know her more,like does she have a family?a husband maybe?kids?What does her mother say about her?do they talk?Does she have a dream man she'd really want to have?Heck,does she turn on.lke we normal people?
What was her best proffesional moment-like the moment she realised she was born to do this.Like if she woke in World war 9,she'd still be a hooker in some street in Beirut,of Wrockrow,or Boston or Kenyatta Avenue.So one day I gave her my card,and she called,only that she wanted me to advice her on how she could save,how she could invest..From then,she started calling me kijana wa bank..I called her Jo' her name was Joan.
I told her that she could save,but on loans,it would be tricky..She scoffed..
"Mnafikiria hii si kazi?"
"No,si hivyo Jo,"
She hanged up.I was lost,how do you calm down a hooker,honestly how? She called later,apologized,said she had a bad night and she was venting.
Then one day,I saw her with a bleeding eyebrow,she was teary I have never been so heartbroken-by a hooker.She looked tired,wasted,angered and all those bad things.I wanted to hug her,but people would think I was crazy,So I held her by hand,told her it would be fine.She came closer-hookers need hugs.The rest is history.As I went to work I wondered,who harms hookers,like if you wanted a wrestling match,go find a man,go test your strength there,not on a hooker whose biggest strength is in talking you up..No.There are some levels of low unaccepetable if we should call you a man.
When I called her later,she told me she had been involved in a "small" fight with a client who refused to pay.Like really?You sort their services and pink cheque them??Who are you?King Solomon?Who is she?Your corncubine?
Days later she came back,wound healed,and the scars in her heart probably forgotten.
Then one day,I missed her at her usual spot,I thought she'd had a goodnight and thus went home early.I did not call her,I knew,if she was going through something she'd call,I was her shrink,her go to person when she couldn't hold it together..She did not.
And I got worried,so I called,she was off.Something was wrong-very wrong,hookers don't switch off thier phones-they can't.
Then her friend, one I always ingored told me one morning that she'd been killed..by a man. A man who did not know what to do with a hooker,and the best he could do with her was to kill her.A man senseless enough to end the life of a bread winner,a sister a mother and my only hooker friend.
That day,I did not have my breakfast- eggs sun side up,and my heart was broken-by a hooker.
We loved you Joan.We did.
Embrace the sun my friend..Take it out of the sky.
You are a sunshine..
Keep shining.
We loved you.We really did.

KENYATTA AVENUE

Few things are breathe taking in this world,like walking in the evening's maze,the noise and haste of a relentless battalion of humans of Nakuru,they come in all sizes,shapes and colors.
Because I am a banker,I will be in town most evenings including Saturdays and Saturdays are bad news,I will leave the office in my shirt,my sweaty self,my bad tie and tired mind,my ass will follow behind,because it is numb from sitting the whole day,and talking to funny people-mostly Kikuyus,Kikuyus are a funny lot.I am one but I have never understood them,we are an overtly suspecting lot-we suspect everybody especially bankers.We think the only thing they do is plan on how they will eat our hard earned cash which we all starsh in Equity bank-by the way if you are a Kikuyu and you are reading this,this is to notify you that Kenya has close to 70 mid level deposit taking banks-including Murangá Teachers' sacco and all other 6 Million Saccos in Kiambu Nyeri and Murangá
Kikuyusand Saccos SMH.
I can spend hours of banking in Kikuyu literature and still fail terribly at ever comprehending it..Kwanza the ones from Nyeri.
So I digress.This article is about the Kenyatta Avenue and all its vanity.So on days when my month is longer than my notes arranges spacingly(if you can say that) I will walk home.And I will see things and people and their things.Here's my list
SELFIE LOT
They have phones the size of a probox windscreen,phones that require those wheelbarrow from a certain Western Kenya town to carry and drag around.They suave once have invested in a selfie stick.They will walk in small groups of 3 or 4 or 5 or 57,heck the slfie lot can never walk alone,They are always busy on their phones probably flirting with a guy/chick they vcan only have in their dreams.they will suddenly and spontaneously lift hands,no word, and poof pose for a selfie,here is what I find ubelievably crazy about this lot,a few minutes they are not talking,they aren't even looking at each other,but when it is selfie time it is time to smile,and look up-quite literally and photo bomb.If you are lucky you will appear in one.Some have smelly arm pits.But selfies must be taken and moments must be documented,
THE PERVERTS
They have a twisted sense of value sytem.They are mostly,young boys from campus mostly Egerton,Egerton is full of perves,boys full of piss,what do people go to study in Egerton?they will turn around at the onset of any female,they will ogle,they will stare,they will lust,they will whistle at young girls probably taking BBIT in JKUAT,By the way what do people of BBIT do?They will follow behind young girls from JKUAT in pencil skirts whose main agenda in life is taking Selfies,wait I have always thought guys of BBIT especially from JKUAT study Selfie Studies go to their Instagram and see-thank me later.These perverts, will take photos of young women butts,they will later post them on Instagram or Snap Chat,or share with other young full of piss Egerton perverts on perverted whatsApp groups.If you are a parent and your young boy goes to Egerton peek into their phone..Just peek.You will discover something likely to be seen on Keeping up with the Kardashians.I am sorry.
THE HIPHOP FANATICS
They dress like they are straight outta Birdman's video,you know those you can't really comprehend?Those ones.They wear shirts the size of a Kanzu,they are always on head phones,lost into some of those lucid tunes that prime time Tv avoids.They are easy at cursing,They will show you the middle finger if you cross their paths because their philosophy is YOLO-poor souls.They are a funny lot these ones-They need redemption.
THE STOOD UP
Mostly women dating or trying to date fools that can't keep time,they are always outside coffee shops and they always look wasted,anxious and restless,they are punching their phones,the crazy charlatan has been waited for,for like 9 hours,I suspect the waited for fools are young full of piss boys from Egerton.see?
They are probably waiting for Sports Pesa to send them betting money from last weekend so as to turn up.The stood up will be heavily wading into their Istagram accounts,because they have mastered wifi passwords for these coffee shops because they are regular outside standers..haha.Mostly they will remain there until the kingdom come.I rest my case.
TIRED BANKERS.
They have bad ties,bad shoes,bad moods and bad walking styles,they walk like they own the street.Like they can buy Kenya Airways and Jambo Jet and the government all at once.Bamkers are a sorry lot,if it is early 20s in the month they have some little money and thus,they are always talking loud,laughing hesterically and showing you attitude on the road because they work in banks-forgive them,there is something money-holding money does to you.Bankers are high on attitude,I think they suffer from severe esteem issues,and they have to make up for it by walking like they can buy Jambo jet and Kenya Airways and the government.
THE SHREWD HAWKERS
These are annoying mostly,they will sell you anything.They will try to sell you gumboots in January,yes because gumboots are the coolest thing in January to buy in the evening,There is one that sells watches just along Maasai Market,he has a Somali accent,he will follow you for kilometres even after confessing that you are in the thick of things and the month iko kwa corner..If you are in the company of a woman,they double their mojo,they have something for "madam" a fake golden chain,a fave silver ring just anything,you can buy a kidney from a guy who sells watches along Maasai Market.
THE POLITICIANS
They are always discussing issues,they stand unmoved on verandahs,on the way of well meaning Nakurians,people who are having a bad evening and they only want to get home,They will be discussing how Waiguru will be Ruto's running mate in 2035,this they know because they went to school with Mzee Jomo Kenyatta and were even to be included in his cabinet were it not for the people that "surrounded" mzee,they will pack their bicycles against walls of the shops adjacent and go full blast on tearing into Musikari Kombo.they will even say he was bedeviled by his evil people and will never amount to anything.
THE SPORTS PESA LOT
These ones need forgiveness.